


we’ve gone too far away from hope

by scarlettroses



Category: Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Angst, Canon Era, Character Death, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Post-Canon, Yikes, imported from my tumblr, internal bleeding, uhhh very sad??
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-03
Updated: 2019-01-03
Packaged: 2019-10-03 07:58:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17280122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarlettroses/pseuds/scarlettroses
Summary: Upon returning from the Refuge, Crutchie is able to maintain a sense of normalcy for a grand total of about six hours. He does his best to act like everything’s alright— he laughs and celebrates with everyone else, just like nothing had happened at all, like he hadn’t genuinely thought he was going to die in that horrible place.





	we’ve gone too far away from hope

**Author's Note:**

> hey ao3 squad!! this oneshot did really well on my tumblr so i thought i’d share it with y’all on here too! (not to flex but a couple people said this was their fav thing i’ve ever written so like,,, i’m excited)
> 
> warning for internal bleeding and death and discussion of abuse. it’s post-refuge and crutchie isn’t doing great so please be prepared for that. 
> 
> uhh otherwise i hope you enjoy?? comment and tell me if it made u cry a little bc i sure as hell did
> 
> (title is from “finding hope” by ava maria safai, which is one of my fav writing songs!!)

Upon returning from the Refuge, Crutchie is able to maintain a sense of normalcy for a grand total of about six hours. He does his best to act like everything’s alright— he laughs and celebrates with everyone else, just like nothing had happened at all, like he hadn’t genuinely thought he was going to die in that horrible place.

But _god_ , is he ever in pain. His whole body aches and he can’t seem to stop shaking. He can hardly keep his balance when he leans on his crutch, because it feels like both his legs are on the verge of giving out. Every deep breath is painful, like his lungs are being ripped apart. Just because he’s made it out doesn’t mean he’s in the clear.

Snyder hadn’t been kind to him, that’s for certain. Every day, he’d been dragged into the old man’s office and interrogated for hours about the strike. What would it take to make Jack break? Who the hell is David Jacobs and how did he end up involved in this? Would his parents miss him if he suddenly disappeared? What about his little brother? What lengths would Jack go to to save little Les Jacobs’s life? What would Crutchie himself do to save the rest of them?

Crutchie had refused to speak, which is how he’d ended up in this terrible state. He’d been beaten for hours at a time and he has the injuries to show for it, not to mention whatever illness he must’ve caught in there. He can feel his own forehead burning with a fever and if there was any food in his stomach at all, he’s sure he’d vomit it up.

He’d taken a blow to the chest this morning that still has him struggling for breath. Everything that had been wrong before feels amplified now, and he swears he can feel himself weakening by the second. This isn’t good, he can tell.

Everyone is busy celebrating their win tonight, so it’s easy to fade into the background and focus on just staying conscious. He ends up sitting down on one of the couches in the main living area of the lodging house and electing to stay there and observe everyone else.

His plan is effective for about ten minutes.

“Hey.”

Crutchie is snapped out of his own little world as Finch sits down next to him. He looks happy and carefree, which makes Crutchie smile. At least one of them is having a good time tonight.

“Hi,” replies Crutchie, realizing just now that his throat is still raw from almost a week spent screaming in pain. “I’ve missed you.”

Almost hesitantly, Finch slides his hand over to intertwine their fingers. Most people know about them, the connection they share, but they like to keep it under wraps just in case.

“I missed you too,” he says, watching Crutchie’s face carefully and seeming to grow worried after a moment. “How’re you doing? You’ve been awful quiet tonight.”

Crutchie adjusts himself ever-so slightly on the couch, trying to turn and face Finch a little better. He’s suddenly hit with a wave of intense pain and a strong head rush as he moves— the whole room seems to spin around him, and there’s a terrible, high-pitched ringing in his ears.

“Woah,” says Finch, quickly reaching out to steady Crutchie’s shoulders. His voice sounds muted, like he’s talking from far away, down a long tunnel. “Are you alright? Look at me, Crutchie. Try and stay with me.”

Crutchie can’t seem to reorient himself. His vision is flickering in and out, and there’s a strong taste of bile in the back of his throat.

“I don't—” He cuts himself off, swallowing hard to keep from vomiting up stomach acid. “I don’t feel too good, Finchy.”

That’s the last thing he remembers before the whole world goes black.

-

Finch suddenly finds himself with Crutchie slumped over on his shoulder, totally unconscious. His body is radiating heat from what must be a fever, and his breathing is coming out in little wheezes.

_What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck._

Maybe he’s just tired. He’s gotta be exhausted from everything that just happened, and it seems like he’s sick as well. He probably just needs some rest. He’ll probably just sleep through the night and wake up in a much better state, right?

“Okay, let’s get you to bed…” he mumbles, mostly just talking to himself in an effort to calm down. He stands up and carefully lifts Crutchie in his arms, wincing at just how light he’s become. “This is fine. You’re fine. It’s totally fine.”

A few of the fellas give him concerned looks as he walks towards the stairs, Crutchie’s limp body making it look like he’s keeled right over and died in his arms.

“He fell asleep on me,” Finch lies through his teeth, feigning a smile. “He’s just tired from all this partying tonight. We’re gonna go to bed early.”

Finch continues onward with a quicker pace, desperate to get out of this crowd. He takes the stairs two at a time, all the way up to the top floor where the older boys stay. The room is deserted, thank god, and he can hardly hear all the commotion downstairs.

Crutchie’s bed is a bottom bunk, close to the window. The sheets are neatly folded, as they have been for the past week of disuse, and his _STRIKE_ banner has been laid across his pillow, a conscious reminder to all the boys of just what they were fighting for.

Finch lays Crutchie down and slides the banner out from under his head, tying it to the post of the bunk instead. He takes a deep breath and tries to calm down enough to know what to do.

He’s _so_ sick. He’s got a fever and he’s hardly breathing and he’s so, so incredibly pale. He’d been scarily easy to carry— he’s probably been sick for a few days, at least.

He decides that cleaning the dried blood and caked-on dirt from Crutchie’s face night be a good place to start, since he’ll use a cool cloth that’ll hopefully help to tame the fever as well. He darts over to the washroom and crosses his fingers that the tap will work, as the lodging house’s plumbing is rather hit-or-miss, depending on the day. He breathes a sigh of relief when a rush of water comes out and he’s able to wet a cloth to wash Crutchie’s face.

“You’re so fucking brave,” he finds himself mumbling, as he scrubs gently at the blood surrounding a cut on Crutchie’s eyebrow. “I’m so happy to have you home. I ain’t ever letting you outta my sight again.”

Crutchie doesn’t stir. It’s not until his face is clean, though still bruised, beaten and feverishly flushed, and Finch begins unbuttoning his shirt to change him into pyjamas, that his hand must brush over some painful spot and Crutchie startles awake.

“ _Ow_! Don’t touch me!” he screams, immediately sitting up and trying to push Finch away. The adrenaline only lasts moments, though, because he quickly falls back on his pillow, too weak to stay upright. “Please,” he wheezes. “Get away. I ain’t done nothin’ wrong this time. I can be good now, I swear it. I won’t act up anymore, just don’t hurt me, _please_.”

Finch finds himself almost just as crazed and desperate when he drops the rag he’d been cleaning with and grabs Crutchie’s hands in his own.

“ _No_! I swear I wasn’t trying to hurt you,” he yells, before remembering that Crutchie is terrified and he probably ought to lower his voice. “Crutchie… _Charlie_ , it’s just me. It’s Finch. I don’t wanna hurt you, I promise. I just wanted to get you changed. I love you so much. I’m never gonna hurt you.”

Crutchie’s eyes are glazed over in his feverish haze. He’s looking at Finch, but not really _seeing_ him, just staring into space. He’s quiet for a moment, breathing heavily as panicked tears build in his eyes, but he doesn’t pull his hands away. Hopefully that’s a good sign.

“Finchy?” he asks, after a moment, still breathless with panic. “You ain’t real, are you? I’m dreaming. You shouldn’t be here. You gotta leave.”

Finch swallows thickly. _He’s got a fever_ , he reminds himself. _It’s making him delusional. At least he knows who you are. This is fine._

“Can you tell me where you are right now, Charlie?” he asks, trying to keep his voice as steady and calm as he can. “Where are you that I shouldn’t be? Tell me what you see.”

It takes Crutchie a moment before he speaks, his empty eyes darting around the room.

“Um… I’m in the Refuge,” he mumbles, sounding just as out-of-it as he looks. “It’s dark. I think… they took me to the basement again. Ain’t no light down there. Or food, or water, or nothin’ at all. M’gonna die, they said.” His voice breaks and he chokes out a sob. “So I’m down here where no one’s gotta see it.”

Wow. That’s a lot to unpack. The poor kid is crying now, totally lost in his delusion. Finch tries his very best to stay calm and squeezes Crutchie’s hands tightly. He shakes his head and hopes to God that this isn’t what had actually happened to him in there.

“Ya feel that?” he asks, tightening his grip on Crutchie’s hands, and Crutchie sniffles and nods. “That means I’m real, don’t it? If you was dreamin’ me, you wouldn’t be able to touch me, right?”

Slowly, Crutchie nods again.

“And lemme tell you somethin’, Crutchie,” Finch continues. “I’m not in the Refuge. I’m in the lodging house, sittin’ right next to your bunk. It’s getting a little dark out, but I can see the sunset through the window. Ain’t no dark basement here, that’s for sure. The boys is all having a party downstairs, but I’m up here where it’s quiet.”

Crutchie is still crying, but his eyes are slowly gaining some clarity and he seems to be coming back to reality. He seems to want to say something, but he ends up just squeezing Finch’s hands again.

“So if I’m not in the Refuge,” Finch says, rubbing his thumbs along the backs of Crutchie’s hands, “and you’re holding my hands, so you know I’m real— that means you must not be in the Refuge either, right? You must be in the lodging house, with me. That make sense?”

Crutchie stares at Finch for a long moment, seemingly trying to wrap his head around all this. There’s silent tears streaming down his cheeks and he just looks _lost_ , like he can’t understand what’s real and what isn’t.

“Charlie,” sighs Finch, letting go of one of Crutchie’s hands to reach up and cup his cheek. “Look at me. You’re safe. You’re with me, and I’m real, and you’re safe. I love you more than anything and I ain’t ever gonna let you get hurt again. Okay?”

Crutchie whimpers quietly and closes his eyes, leaning into Finch’s touch.

“I’m _sorry_ , Finchy,” he finally whispers, in a very out of character display of vulnerability. Now that they’re calmer, Finch is realizing that every breath Crutchie lets out is a horrible wheeze. He’s _really_ not doing well. “I’m so sorry. **It hurts so bad, I just want it all to stop.** I… fuck, I was so scared to die in there, and I was hanging on ‘cause all I wanted was to see you and all the fellas one more time. Now I gotcha and I’m happy. I love you so much.”

Finch doesn’t know what to make of that. He’s about to try and keep comforting and reassuring him again, but the weight of Crutchie’s words suddenly sinks in.

“Hey, no, you ain’t dying on me,” he says, suddenly desperate and terrified. “Charlie, _no_ , you’re safe now. I can’t lose you. _Please_ , Crutchie, you can’t leave me. We just got you back.”

Crutchie just smiles weakly and squeezes Finch’s hand.

“I ain’t nothin’ special, you’ll be fine,” he says, before coughing intensely into his elbow. There’s a spot of blood on his sleeve when he pulls his arm away. He stares at the spot and seems too tired to even be concerned. “Snyder hit me real hard this morning and that’s been happening ever since. I’ve been feelin’ real queasy too. Don’t think it’s a good sign.”

Finch swallows the lump in his throat and just leans over to hug Crutchie as tightly as he can.

“You’re gonna be okay, baby,” he whispers, trying his hardest to keep from breaking down. “I love you so much. You’re gonna be just fine. I promise.”

As Crutchie falls asleep, Finch finally lets himself cry— hard, gut-wrenching sobs that he’s not sure he’s ever done before.

What the hell is he going to do?

**Author's Note:**

> hhhhhhh yikes??? i’m very sorry
> 
> um please comment/kudos, and my tumblr is @thefactsofthematter if you’re interested! thanks for reading!!


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